All the Small Things
by Lila2
Summary: All I got is time until the end of time.


**Title:** "All the Small Things"

**Author:** Lila

**Rating:** PG-13

**Pairing/Character: **Lilly Kane

**Spoiler:** "Normal is the Watchword"

**Length:** one-shot

**Summary: "All I got is time until the end of time."**

Author's Note: First crossover and first Lilly fic, and while I usually frown on crossovers because I like to keep my fandoms separate, I think this one works. I hope it does for everyone else too. As for motivation, just my reasoning behind Lilly's appearance in the season opener. And for those interested in my V/Lamb sequel to "Caught Out There," it's coming along, just taking a bit longer than I hoped to gel, but it will be a reality at some point. Summary courtesy of Meatloaf, "Heaven Can Wait." Hope you enjoy!

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The chaises have ultra-soft padding, just the way you like it, and you sink in, adjust the strap of your bathing suit, check the edges of your tan, and remember there's no such thing as tan lines where you are, no such thing as sunburns, no such thing as anything changing. Except when someone wants to change it for you. You're a little pissed at Veronica -- thankful too that she got you out of that hideous pep squad uniform and ditched the bloody blonde hair – but you're not sure you want to spend eternity in a pink bikini and your homecoming earrings. You wish she'd paid more attention to your fashion sense, wished it hadn't taken you dying for her to ditch the yellow cotton sundress because those slouch boots everyone's sporting this year are seriously hot and you think you could spend eternity in a mini-dress and suede boots and never get tired of them. 

You hear footsteps behind you and turn, still surprised after so much time that looking directly at the sun doesn't hurt your eyes, that your mother isn't nagging in your ear that you'll go blind. You'd never admit it to anyone, and not that there's anyone to admit it too, but you kind of miss it, because it was annoying and Celeste was a bitch, but it meant she was paying attention to you, that someone was paying attention to you. You look up and a girl is approaching, black halter dress revealing toned arms, black suede slouch boots hugging the length of her calves. You hate her already. She brushes blonde hair back from her face and looks around nervously. She's new, and you hate her more. There's an empty chair beside you, because there's always an empty chair when someone needs one, and her voice is squeaky and scared when she speaks. "Is anyone sitting here?" she asks and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. You're a good girl now, a model of service, loyalty, and honor, because it's how your mother wants to remember you and you don't have the power to say no anymore.

You do your best to be who you think you used to be and shrug your shoulders non-chalantly, like you could care less, because you know when you were alive you would have. "Sure," you say, and she slips silently into the chair beside you. Your sky is cloudless and a brilliant blue, and she's watching it so closely you wonder if her sky is on the verge of a storm. You think you feel sorry for her, a familiar cold ache filling your chest the way it does whenever you think of _before_, and she's looking so pitiful and confused, like she's still searching for the white light she doesn't know she's long since passed, and those boots are so fucking hot you'd do about anything to know what she'll do to give them up, so you break your own rule and talk to her. "How'd you die?" you ask casually, as if you were wondering where she grew up or where she went to college. Her head swivels, blonde hair flying over her shoulders, and her blue eyes widen. Yup, still looking for the light. When she doesn't respond, you start on your own. "I was murdered by Aaron Echolls," you say. "He bashed my skull in at sixteen. Doesn't get much worse than that." From the tone of your voice it sounds like you're talking about the weather, which you pretty much are, because everyone around you is dead and angry and after you've heard ten "how I died stories" you've heard them all.

She looks at you for a split second, all blonde hair and big blue eyes, and for a moment you think you see Veronica's face when she found you, bloody and broken in your own backyard, the same look of stubborn horror shifting through her eyes. You smile, just so she'll relax, and her guard slips a bit. "I was on a train." she finally says, rubs her stomach hard. "I was going to Seattle for the final fitting on my dress." She looks at you again, and this time you definitely see your Veronica staring back at you. "I am – I was getting married," she continues and smiles shyly, like she's sharing an inside joke. Your own guard goes back up because you haven't had anyone to laugh with in two years. "There was an accident," she says, and you snap your head back to look at her, the ponytail Veronica dreamed up for you whipping against your neck. "This pole…it went through me. There was nothing they could do…" and she trails off and you wonder what's worse, being impaled by a pole or your boyfriend's father cracking your head open, leaving you for dead, and letting your own father take the fall.

It's not exactly a new story, but you still have to ask. "Did it hurt?"

She rubs her stomach again and the slinky fabric of her dress rustles over the chaise. "No, not really. Not for me anyway." She gets that far away look in her eye that you know too well, the one that means she's remembering what was and what might have been and you can't go down that road again and instead you try to stop from hating her all over again.

So you do what you do best and change the subject, talk fashion. "So what's the deal with the dress?"

She looks absently at her clothes like she can't remember what she's wearing, which would make sense, because it's not like she's the one who chose them. "I wore this to my engagement party. Danny, my fiancé, I was wearing it the last time he saw me…I guess this is how he wants to remember me."

You gesture to your bikini. "I know I have a rockin' bod and all," you say. "But I'm gonna kill my best friend. I don't wanna roam the earth or whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing wearing this thing. It's cute and all, but totally rides my crack." She smiles, just a tiny hint of one, and you're proud of yourself because you embodied all the service and leadership stuff your mother always bitched about and made a sad girl smile. After a moment she laughs and you laugh with her, and you're really proud of yourself, proud of yourself the way your mother would have been proud of you, but the moment is over before it even had a chance to start, that cold, empty feeling creeping into your chest. You did something good, but you're dead. She'll never know you turned into the daughter she always wanted, and you'll never know why you still care.

"So what do you do here?" she asks and the laughter is gone and her voice is brittle and aching.

You're not sure how to answer. You're not really sure where _here_ is, just that you can't escape it. She has that that faraway look glazing her eyes again and you know she knows the about the white light. Her breath, or whatever it is, starts wheezing through her in angry, hitching sobs and you have to look away. You can't go through this again. Your white light has long since disappeared, and you didn't collect two hundred dollars on your return lap. You might know the drill, but it doesn't mean you want to live it again, that first day when you strutted in like you owned the place in those too-short shorts and crop top, blood caking your hair, and everyone looked at you like you didn't exist, because you didn't, not anymore. You weren't Lilly Kane, you weren't anyone at all.

She grabs your arm, and you're surprised by how much it hurts, and she looks at you pleadingly, the same way Veronica looked when she begged you to find out why Duncan dumped her, and you can't say no. Finally, you answer. "You just are,' you say, and you know it sounds lame and straight out of an episode of "Touched By An Angel," but you don't care because it's the truth and you're going to tell truths in death that you couldn't tell in life. "You watch," you say. "Sometimes you help." You smile broadly. "I saved my best friend's life last week." You nod your head, indicate where Servando is relaxing on the beach across the way. "She was supposed to be on that bus too," you say and realize this poor girl has no idea what you're talking about, but she'll figure it out soon enough.

She looks confused as she watches Servando tinker with bike parts. "Does that mean we're angels? I was a goody-goody growing up. Whenever I got in trouble my brother would joke that my halo was tarnished."

You start to laugh, because you were many things but an angel wasn't one of them, and then you remember the slutty angel costume you were going to wear for Halloween that year and never got the chance to show off, and the laughter dies on your lips. "My mother wanted me to be a good girl," you say, and you're surprised by how easily the truth is pouring out, how long it's been since you had someone to talk to. "The day I died, I was having an affair with my boyfriend's father." The girl's eyes widen slightly and you bet she wishes she'd conjured up a beach, not a pool, and was building bikes from scratch with Servando. "There wasn't anything good about me, nothing PG-rated anyway. You just get here and all you can do is watch everyone else forget about you, and they remember only what they want to remember, how they want to see you." You gesture to the bikini. "And after a while, you want to see yourself the way they see you."

It's her turn to laugh and she gestures to the mini and boots. "I always thought of myself as an ugly-ducking, but I guess Danny sees me as a supermodel. I look kinda hot, don't I?"

You laugh, and it feels real, almost the way it used to. "I think it's time for your inner swan to come out."

"I'm Bonnie," she says and extends a hand and you still have to remind yourself that you're not a ghost and that her fingers won't slip through yours.

"Lilly," you respond and your fingers grip hers tightly, like a lifeline, and in your version of sunlight she looks so much like Veronica that you think she could be one. She looks at you like you're her savoir, and you know you finally are one. You just wish your mother could see it. "Bonnie," you say, eyeing the boots, feeling almost like your old self again. "You're gonna be my new best friend."

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** Crib Notes:** The Bonnie in this story is the Bonnie from last week's "Grey's Anatomy," and better known as PoleGirl. I just borrowed her because I thought Lilly could use a friend up above. 

Writers live for feedback – please leave some if you have the time.


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